‘Having fun?’
‘It’s better than wading through the Thames, yes,’ she replied, wishing she were in Paris under different circumstances.
Her companion looked cynical. ‘Just because we’ve crossed the Channel, don’t start thinking we’re safe, okay?’ he warned.
‘Don’t you think I know that? I know we’re in trouble, Josh. I was there, remember? I have a bullet hole in my bag to prove it, and for all we know, those Russians might be waiting for us at any point in this city. So yes, I wish we were on a minibreak, but we’re not, so I just want to find out what Nick was up to, report it back to Fox and go home.’
Josh turned away from her, relaxing back into his seat; she watched him stifle a smile. Did he really appreciate the danger they were in, or was this just an everyday occurrence for a man like Josh? He certainly didn’t seem to be as ruffled as she was.
They travelled in silence until they passed a Monoprix store. Josh told the driver to stop, and ran inside the shop, leaving Sophie in the cab. Watching the street scene, she noticed that Paris seemed unsettlingly quiet.
‘Les vacances,’ explained the cab driver when she asked him in her schoolgirl French.
She was glad when Josh returned, carrying a small black rucksack.
‘What’s in there?’ she asked.
‘Toothpaste,’ he said flatly, sitting down next to her as the taxi took off.
‘Why don’t I believe you?’
Josh raised an eyebrow.
‘I’d say that was a common theme of our acquaintance.’
He was maddening, she thought, edging away from him on the black plastic taxi seat. Why couldn’t he converse with her for five minutes without tormenting her? Leave her to enjoy the view and forget about the last two terrible days, just for one moment?
‘So tell me about Nick’s mysterious apartment.’
‘I don’t want this to be difficult for you,’ said Josh, looking straight ahead.
‘Tell me,’ she pressed. ‘It can’t be any worse than everything else I’ve heard over the past couple of days.’
‘Okay,’ said Josh, letting out a long breath. ‘I guess you’ve grasped by now that Nick lived off women?’
Sophie felt her stomach turn over again. In her head, she knew it was true, but she supposed her heart hadn’t quite caught up yet. She gave a tight nod.
‘Last year, he spent the summer in Monte Carlo, where he met a woman. She was a countess, an older lady. Nick told me she lived in a suite in the Hotel de Paris – that’s in Monaco – and had properties around the world.’
‘She was “older”?’ Sophie asked, noticing his emphasis on that word. ‘How much older?’
‘Older,’ repeated Josh.
‘How old, Josh?’
He shrugged. ‘He showed me a photograph of her on his phone. She was well preserved. Sixties, maybe more.’
Sophie felt sick. Could it be true? It had to be.
‘You men,’ she said, her mouth turned down. ‘If a woman is rich, it doesn’t matter what she looks like, does it?’
‘Oh yes, and I suppose you’re telling me that women are so different? What do all your Chelsea girlfriends do for a career? They hang around nightclubs hoping to snag a banker or a minor royal. You saw them at the Chariot party: all those long-legged model types with their Birkin bags and their eyeball-sized diamonds. You think they care what their husbands look like?’
Sophie thought of beautiful Francesca and her tubby, red-faced fiancé. Josh was right, of course. He was always right.
‘Doesn’t make it okay, though, does it?’ she said.
Josh put a hand on her arm.